Jack:
You’ll never guess who’s here.
I blink, the fine hairs on my neck lifting. There’s no way he means who I think he means.
Jack:
Yep, your girl just walked in. And with that big fucker.
My stomach sinks, and I’m up off the couch, searching for everything I need to leave, already stuffing my sneakers on before Jack sends another message. My focus stays locked on my phone as more messages come through, because apparently, the guy is fucking chatty through text.
Jack:
This has just become a prime opp you’re missing. Think about that while you’re sitting at home having a pity party.
Jack:
I’m gonna go find Marisa and Bliss, find out what the fuck’s going on.
Jack:
You just keep crying into your pillow.
Asshole.
Anger and worry mingle in my chest as I slam through the door, refusing to let myself second-guess whether I’m making the right call. I haven’t seen Charlie since the day I fucked everything up, but I can’t sit at home when she’s within reach of Bliss’s poison.
I let her get hurt once, and I won’t let it happen again. It doesn’t mean I expect her to forgive me for my part, or even talk to me at all, but she deserves to be protected, especially after I’ve already let her down so badly.
Chapter 12
Charlie
Kayla is sighing as soon as she comes into the apartment. I watch from my spot on the couch as she shrugs out of her coat.
Sigh.
Kicks off her boots.
Sigh.
Drops onto the other end of the couch.
Biggest sigh yet.
My mouth twitches as I put my bookmark into place and close my book, looking at her as I ask, “So, how was dinner?”
My cousin groans, slumping against the cushions. “Your mom spent thewholenight interrogating me,” she complains. “I wish I was exaggerating, but Aunt Aggie is relentless.”
I grimace, fingers going tight around the spine of my book. “You know she hates it when you call her Aggie,” I remind her, and Kayla snorts.
“Well, I’m not calling her Aunt Agatha. Do I look like the cast ofDownton Abbey?” Kayla snarks, sending me a sour look.
I roll my eyes. “What did you tell her?”
She shrugs. “That you were taking some time to get over your breakup before you re-entered polite society.”
My brows knit together. “Polite society?” I ask incredulously. “Now youdosound like you’re fromDownton Abbey, except you’re describing a period of mourning.”
